


Vallaslin

by zombiefishgirl



Series: Of Ardour and Adoration [16]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 03:51:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4549215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiefishgirl/pseuds/zombiefishgirl





	Vallaslin

Sarita sat at the small dresser and stared contemplatively at her own reflection. More specficially the intricate lines decorating her cheekbones. The words Corypheus had shouted at her during their final fight, that the designs she and her people were so proud of were originally slave markings. He could have been lying she supposed but there was a small, traitorous part of her that wondered...what if he was not? What if he was telling the truth about that much at least? She has already written back to her Clan with the information, she was not sure what they would do with it really but for now she was still trying to decide what she made of it. She was not naive, she knew that so much of Elven culture was lost or destroyed in the milenia since the fall of Arlathan. She knew the Dalish were picking over the scraps that had been left behind trying to rebuild even a little of what once was and she knew that working on so little from so long ago they were bound to make mistakes as Solas had been so very fond of pointing out to her. Still the idea of her people, even so long ago, keeping and branding slaves was...unsettling to say the least. And now here she was with the evidence of that abhorrent practice displayed on her face for all to see. 

She ran an elegantly tapered finger along the design and thought back to when she was a girl. Long rides in the Aravals waiting to arrive at a new campsite and studiously drawing the patterns she saw on the faces of her friends and family on scraps of paper, little more than childish scribbles that her Grandmother cooed over nontheless. She thought of her mother, brave and beautiful, the side of her face marred by a fire, the design dedicating her to Sylaise all but burned away and how her mother had cried, not so much for any loss of beauty but for the loss of the tie to the Dalish she had been so proud to find after escaping an Alienage. Her mother getting the design redone over the scarred tissue even though the clan reassured her that she was still one of them with or without it.

She thought of herself as a teenager on the cusp of adulthood trying to decide which of their Gods she most wanted to be connected to or to emulate. Andruil the huntress, so quick and fierce with a bow? Sylaise like her mother, keeping the hearth? Dirthamen with all his secrets and knowledge? Before deciding on Mythal, the mother, fierce and protective, symbol of justice. How proud she was to be one of the youngest in her clan to get the markings, aged just 16, she did not flinch or cry even once.

She thought of lying, broken and bloodied in a tent in the cold. Slipping in and out of consciousness, dimly aware of Cullen watching over her. Afraid to let her out of his sight after he had found her in the snow and carried her back to the others. She thought of him watching over her as she rested, long before either one of them had given voice to the feelings pulling them towards one another. His gloved hand, tenderly, reverantly tracing the design on her cheekbones. She thought of him repeating the gesture many months later as they lay naked and entertwined in one anothers arms spent from their earlier exertions. She thought of his lips, soft yet scarred kissing her cheeks. She thought of his voice in the dark when he could not sleep, a little hesitant, worried that it was somehow taboo or that he would offend, asking her about the markings and what they meant. She thought of her self lying with her head over his heart, listening to the steady drumming as she told him the stories of her people, stories of Gods he did not worship or believe in but how he was respectful of the fact that she did.

She thought of him tracing the design again as they lay together in the aftermath of Corypheus' defeat, his voice full of love and awe as he whispered to her that she was so beautiful.

She pulled her eyes at last from her own reflection, the candlelight beginning to gutter and looked over her shoulder at her golden lion sleeping soundly for once.

They may have been slave markings before she thought with a smile, but that was definitely not what they meant to her.


End file.
